"Mark Twain said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” John James Morgan knew the day he was born. Two days before his sixty-first birthday he found out why.

John is a happily married businessman, father and grandfather, living in Cheshire, in the heart of England. Happy, that is, until his family face a crisis. A terminal one.
At the local market, a flower-seller tells John a story that changes his life. Assured his destiny is in his own hands, John crosses the globe in pursuit of a religious artefact which has remained hidden for two thousand years. Presented with an antique box containing maps, parchments and a bag of leaves, John returns to the UK and witnesses a miracle.

With the box in his possession, John and his family find new friends and enemies, lives are threatened and people die, although some will be healed. With the help of many different people, from all walks of life, John’s journey will finally lead him to the discovery of an extraordinary and mysterious tree. But what will this Eden tree mean to John, his family, their faith and their future?

The Eden Tree is author Peter Worthington's first novel, a fictional account based on his own experiences with his son, John Wesley, who underwent treatment for cancer but sadly passed away shortly after his seventh birthday. The Eden Tree has allowed Peter to give his much-loved son “a happier ending.”

Wesley John Morgan

One morning in May 2005, our daughter Becky, biting her lip, asked if she could “have a moment”. Glancing at Liz, I raised my eyebrows and we sat together at the breakfast bar holding our coffee mugs.Stew bubbled on the gas ring a few feet away.
Sucking in her breath and fidgeting, Becky seemed to search her mind for the words. She finally blurted out, “I’m pregnant.”
Liz’s coffee spilled as she set down the ceramic mug. My stomach sank. I felt the blood drain from my brain and the kitchen floor appeared to wobble. I watched Liz walk to the gas hob and accidentally turn the knob higher, sending stew bubbling over and steam and the smell of vegetables and onions into the air before she turned it off.
Wiping the maroon counter repeatedly with a kitchen cloth, Liz turned to Becky. “Are you sure, sweetheart? What about uni?”
Her face blotchy, the floodgates opened and Becky sobbed, “Yes, Mum, I’ve had the tests.” Liz and I weighed up the formidable costs of a teenage pregnancy and, we suspected, those of a single parent.We saw on her face that Becky had thought about this too.
We hugged Becky who was weeping, her shoulders convulsing.Liz’s tears joined Becky’s. Wanting to ask about the father, I nevertheless decided to bite my tongue. ‘Useless bugger,’ I thought, ‘where is he now?’ I had other questions.
The first few months of her pregnancy, Becky stomped in and out while we tiptoed around. She slammed the phone down when friends and family tried to rally. One person who did not rally or give any support was her boyfriend Jason. I think the “inconvenience” persuaded him to steal away in the late spring.
“Just give me five minutes alone with that toad,” Sean snarled, making a scissor movement near his groin. “He won’t father any more children.” Sean was my best friend, an ex-paratrooper, a retired SAS officer, and the security advisor in our business, Morgan Steel Limited, in which Liz and I were 50/50 shareholders.
“I know what you mean, Sean,” I said, my fist clenched, “join the queue.” But I knew that violence rarely solved problems.
“Getting a straight answer from that bloke is like catching a fart,” Sean said.
His succinct humour summed up what I felt: anger tinged with disappointment.
Jason’s rapid departure obviously upset Becky, but I’d never rated him. Jason Gould seemed to me to be as slippery as an eel stealthily slithering away from steady sentiment.
With his departure, Becky appeared to tumble into a black hole of uncertainty. I watched her stroll aimlessly around the house in a white bathrobe, no make-up, eating not enough to keep a gnat alive, and giving vent to uncontrolled outbursts.
“Come on, darling, you must eat something,” Liz pleaded one lunchtime. She placed a bowl of piping hot soup on the kitchen counter.
“I just don’t want it! OK?” Becky pushed the food away. “Stop fussing!” Thumping the swing door, she stormed out, taking the stairs two at a time. A bedroom door slammed, reverberating around the hallway.
One morning Liz and I were in each other’s arms in the kitchen.
“She seems crushed, John,” Liz sobbed, her tears wetting my shirt.“Instead of being full of maternal joy she’s so gloomy, and it’s so unlike her to be so prickly. I think her self-esteem is bruised.”
Becky slouched into the kitchen from the lounge, her eyes piercing.My cheeks went hot, sensing we’d been overheard.
“Why don’t we go shopping, sweetheart?” Liz said. “You need some new clothes and the baby…”
Becky shrugged. “No thanks.”
I caught snippets of phone conversations and sensed her friends’ words and ours were ignored. With heartache, I saw Becky withdraw to a life of solitude, shut away in her room and growing bigger week by week. For three long months, her morbidity gave us the fear that depression had established a stronghold in Becky’s mind, and with no apparent saviour.
But an unlikely saviour came in the form of a dog, a chocolate-coloured puppy, her 18th birthday present from my mother.
The Labrador, aptly named Bourneville, offered unconditional love and a childlike irresistible happiness. He chewed slippers and played with magazines that littered the hallway. His perpetual wagging tail slapped the furniture, leaving scuff marks and dog hair clinging to every piece of furniture. But we accepted his trail of damage, watching with surprise the change in Becky.
The dog grew from misbehaving puppy to tireless friend, drawing her into his world of fun. The sound of his persistent yapping echoed at the door until she walked him out onto the lawns.
“All right, I’ll get your lead,” Becky yielded, and walked him to the lakes.
He nudged a despondent knee until she stroked his head and then he licked her hand. Bourne – his name abbreviated – dispelled the angst. With my own eyes, I saw his sunshine scatter her cloud of despondency. After weeks in limbo, Rebecca Morgan stepped back into life’s arena to face all contenders.
“I want a long soak in the bath,” Becky announced one day, “and where’s my lippy?”
Sporting a little bump and looking radiant, Becky shopped and shopped again, returning with Mothercare bags and new clothes from Mark & Spencer and Next. ...

Peter Worthington lives in Bromsgrove, Worcestershire with his wife Margaret.

Peter has enjoyed a bright and varied career as a church minister, ﬁnancial adviser and internet consultant. Now retired he is busier than ever thanks to his three grandchildren, studying for an Open University Degree in Creative Writing, voluntary work, playing World of Warcraft, serving on the board of a housing association and writing.

He has previously published short stories in a number of Christian magazines. His ﬁrst novel, The Eden Tree (published by Clink Street Publishing 19th July 2016 RRP £8.99 paperback, RRP £2.99 ebook) is available to purchase from online retailers including amazon.co.uk and to order from all good bookstores.